


This Time The Coin Landed Heads Up

by orphan_account



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-20 12:57:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11921385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Robb Stark has lost his war, his head and his seat. Joffrey was felled by poison. The Wildings are poised to attack the Wall. Tyrion awaits his imminent trial by combat.Yet as the two deceased Kings learned first hand a small change in the series of events in the Game of Thrones can change everything wildly and erratically.The course is changed, the events which lead us all to certain monumental shifts happen but when we arrive there and it isn't what was expected how will that affect the Kingdoms and beyond?Well chaos is a ladder after all and sometimes the good guys do win.





	1. Prologue: The Morning Sun

Oberyn span and danced and pivoted and feinted around the Mountain. 

This was unexpected. 

Tywin knew that this was bigger than the trial of his son. If Oberyn won then Dorne would be empowered to begin revenge for events seventeen years past. 

“You raped her! You Murdered her! YOU KILLED HER CHILDREN!”

Oh hush down man, Tywin thought as the Dornishman moved with a speed he had never seen. 

Gregor’s sword swung in an arc high up and sweeping down low, a blow which would take an armored horse’s head. Yet it struck where Oberyn was and in the fraction of a moment it took to swing the Viper was gone. 

The spear span and whirred in a blur as the flat of the blade hit the Mountain’s back. 

It span again, impossible to see straight at the speed it was moving.

The steel finally became still as it caught the back of Gregor’s leg. Ripped backwards it became a blur again. As the chainmail ripped. The leather was torn. Then finally the flesh ripped.

The cry was that of a monster. 

Oberyn paused briefly for the first time in the combat to cut but now he had wounded his quarry the feints restarted and he became a blur of a spinning spear again.

The spear flashed and caught the Mountain.

“YOU RAPED HER! YOU MURDERED HER! YOU KILLED HER CHILDREN!”

Tywin rolled his back teeth over the bottom, picking up the habit from Stannis. 

His spear was back in action, the glints becoming ominous when the steel caught the sun, blinding the audience a second at a time. Taking the Mountain down to one knee. 

“YOU RAPED HER!”

The Red Viper circled and struck out again, pushing out his deadly weapon and kicking the shaft to make to tremble with shock as it caught the Mountain again.

“YOU MURDERED HER!”

Moving again the Viper struck Gregor Clegane down to his back.

“ELIA MARTELL! YOU KILLED HER CHILDREN!” He bellowed driving the spear down with a leaping thrust into the giant’s chest.

“Are you dying?! Oh no, no you can’t die yet,” the Dornish prince taunted his conquest. “You haven’t confessed! Who gave you the order? Who?!” He pointed an accusatory finger up at the Lord of Casterly Rock. 

Tywin felt a slight pang of disappointment. This would be troublesome. A dead Oberyn would be an eventual problem like a disease festering and growing. A victorious Oberyn would be an immediate…. Tywin sat up as he saw the Mountain stir.

The monster’s hand ironically snaked out to grasp the leg of the prince. All's not lost it seemed.

Yet with all that speed Oberyn had shown earlier it wasn’t surprising when he jumped and dodged the swinging fist and in the same motion brought the edge of his spear’s blade through his foe’s wrist taking the offending appendage off. 

“Confess!” 

“Ellia Martell,” the Mountain grumbled, holding his severed wrist with his good hand over his bleeding chest, rolling in agony. 

Poison of course! Tywin cursed internally. 

“I raped her, I killed her children, then I smashed her fucking head in!” He growled before coughing up blood. Red speckled with black. 

The Dornish and their poisons. Cowards. 

“Who gave you the order?!”

“Fuck you.”

Oberyn took a few measured paces away from the withering near corpse and pointed his spear up at the Hand of the King. Before scowling at him and then turning back and with a similar leap to the one which took the Mountain down the prince put the blade of his spear through the skull of the Clegane’s eldest son. 

After one last stare down between the Viper and the Lion the former left the arena and patted Tyrion on the shoulder.

“You are free imp.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“Thank you anyway.”

“Come with me to Dorne, my brother may have a proposition for you.”

 

***

 

“Watch Reek! I want you to watch,” Ramsay whispered soothingly in that soft voice he used. That soft voice which was more terrifying than his rage. 

Theon looked up from staring at cobbles of Moat Cailin’s best bedchamber. 

He had promised the Ironborn captain freedom and Ramsay flayed him alive. Stuck pikes through him and placed him as a grisly decoration over the fort’s wall. 

Myranda was grinning that chesire cat grin of her’s. That nasty wickedness. Totally unashamed of being nude in front of him. Her lithe body itself being somewhat feline as she arched and stretched out her back. Pushing her tits out, a sight which would have had Theon champing at the bit. Yet had Reek ashamed and scared. 

“Good Reek, good, now don’t look away or I’ll know,” Ramsay said in an unnervingly sing-song voice, waggling his finger like a mother might chastising a naughty child. He smirked one last time at Theon as he began undoing his breeches and discarding them. 

Myranda crawled on all fours over the fur covered bed, grinning at him the whole time. Even as Ramsay knelt behind her, grasped her hips and without any foreplay just rammed his cock as deep as he could. She purred and bit her lip. So hard a droplet of blood fell from her lips. Coating her smile, turning her teeth into fangs. 

She purred again as Ramsay pulled his length out of her as far as he could and then rammed back into her. Then again and again. No romance to it. No rhythm being built up. Just an animalistic fuck. Like a beast trying get his end away for the sake of it. 

Theon winced with every thrust. Myranda never broke eye contact. She moaned and screamed as her body rocked with the impact of Ramsay’s rough intrusion inside of her. Yet never broke eye contact. Taunting him with her pupils. 

“Turn around,” Ramsay grunted pulling his cock out and holding it by the base. Wordlessly Myranda shuffled around to face her partner and take him in hand. Finishing him with her hands until he loosed his seed over her breasts and upper stomach. She giggled and stood up. Theon saw the look she gave Ramsay, a lingering look, a desire for some affection. None would ever come.

“Reek, be a dear, and clean me up,” she spoke lowly, hopping from the bed and padding softly over to him, the white fluid dripping down her stomach. He just did as he was told. Humiliation wasn’t pain. 

-

That smile was not a good smile.

Not that Ramsay had a good smile. However this one… Was unseen before.

The lines of Bolton men filled the hill sides. Theon was still in his armor. A shell holding a husk. When Roose Bolton arrived he and his son disappeared off and returned looking too pleased. 

He had been legitimised hadn’t he? Lord Bolton. 

Something deep down in his gut made him shiver. Ramsay was a demon as a Snow as a Bolton… The horrors he would have in store… 

No. No. No. No. Fuck this. Reek would take this. Theon ran his hand over the pommel of the sword he had been temporarily given back. He was Theon for an hour or so. Then back to Reek.

No. He wouldn’t take this. 

“Reek, help me up onto my saddle,” Ramsay sauntered over to the place just ahead of the army where Theon was holding the reigns of both Bolton’s horses. Theon didn’t respond. “Reek! That armor isn’t tricking y…”

He wasn’t thinking he just did it. Dropping both sets of reins Theon tore his sword from the scabbard with his broken and dismembered hand and rammed it straight into a shocked and yet still angry face of Ramsay Bolton. The sword took him in the soft spot under the chin bursting out of his skull. 

“SEIZE HIM!” Roose Bolton bellowed as he fumbled for his own weapon but it was too late. Theon’s bloodied blade took him in the heart. Theon heard the snapping of crossbow strings over the clamour of the army. Felt tremors of impact through his chest and stomach and legs. 

Then.

Then a very pleasant feeling of darkness wrapped him tight. Finally after so many years he found the loving embrace he so desired. 

***

“I’m going down there…” Jon peered down into Castle Black. The fighting was fierce both sides of the Wall now. “Edd you have the wall.” 

The look Edd gave him was one of consternation but not fear. Not like Janos Slynt. Jon knew Edd would hold the wall and he knew he would die trying if he could not hold it.

“Come now brothers fight with me!” Jon bellowed unsheathing his bastard sword as he moved towards the cage lift readying himself for battle below. If he had thought the ascent or descent had been time consuming before it was nothing to this instance. 

Unable to wait a moment longer he leaped from the open door 10 feet from the floor immediately rolling into the fray. Dispatching a wilding with huge axe as he made his way down the stairs. 

The fighting was primeval and brutal but with Jon’s reinforcement the tides shifted as he swung his Valyrian sword left and right taking flesh and guts as he went. 

-

Spitting out blood Jon was able to breath at last when the Magnar of the Thenns collapsed with a blacksmith’s hammer embedded in his skull. Searching for his lost weapon Jon surveyed the battle. It was looking won for now. The brothers were able to split into small groups of twos and threes to pin down lone wilding fighters and kill them. Like hounds after foxes. 

Steadying Longclaw Jon turned back to the fight looking for how he could help. When he saw Ygritte. Through the smoke and chaos. He saw he and she saw him. The bow was drawn the arrow pointed directly at him. 

Through a rabbit’s eye at a hundred paces… She could finish him if she so wished. 

Her eyes softened and she lowered the bow. Jon smiled. Couldn’t help himself. He was glad to see her despite it all.

An arrow broke their meaningful exchange as it almost struck Ygritte, missing by an inch and burying itself in the ground. Snapping his head at the projection arc Jon saw Olly picking another projectile from his quiver. 

“NO!” Jon yelled. “Stop!”

He marched into the center of the training yard of Castle Black where all the melee had occurred. It was over now. No more fighting was needed. His lover… Former lover, was the only enemy he still saw standing. 

“Put her in chains,” a brother said as Jon saw Ygritte dragged to her feet and arrested. Cursing and spitting and struggling the whole time. Almost made him smile again, seeing her act the way only she could. 

Quiet was beginning to settle over the castle and the Wall. 

Except for one clang of steel on steel. Tormund. Of course. Two arrows buried in him he was flailing wildly with his cutlass as the Night’s Watch closed in around him. Picking up Ygritte’s discarded bow Jon put one final arrow in his leg.

“Put him chains!” he ordered. Mimicking what another had done for Ygritte. 

“Mance should have killed you when he had the chance boy!”

“Aye,” Jon agreed, “he should have.”

The two redheads were taken to cells. Every brother still standing without coordination but in unison looked around for further danger. When there was none and even the top of the wall was quiet cheers erupted and tight hugs were exchanged. 

“We won!”

“We fucking did it!”

“Fuck, we did!”

Aye for now Jon thought. For now. His body was exhausted but he had too much to think about to sleep. Mance was still out there… Plus a certain girl in the cells. The tumult would continue in the morn.


	2. ONE: The Light Of The Dawn

“I’ll lead the party in front of the wall, the other two columns through the trees, split at the side and the rear.”

“Yes your grace.”

“Lady Melisandre has destroyed their scouts. Some bird I hear,” Stannis grumbled. Annoyed by the complication of an ever expanding realm of magical possibilities he now had to contend with. 

“Yes your grace she mana…”

Stannis held up a hand.

“No more wasted time. Prepare to advance,” he commanded, unsheathing Lightbringer. Many more blades were drawn and lances gripped tightly as the cavalry began moving forward. His column moved in front of the Wall. The looming structure providing shade as they advanced. Two separate columns broke off to their task. They would meet soon.

“Pick up the pace,” Stannis shouted, leading his own riders at their head. The beating hooves and blood pounding. It would inspire most men into bloodlust and battle fury. Not Stannis. This was his duty. To protect the realms of men. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

Even over the beating of all those horse’s hooves Stannis heard the cries and commands as the Wildlings tried to organise for the incoming attack. Men wrapped up in ill-fitting cloaks and furs fumbled to try to form sort of spear wall. Their discipline was non-existent. Yet still men the same as you’d find anywhere.

The so-called ‘savages’ tried to form a line by the treeline. In the most basic of all maneuvers Stannis jolted his horse to seem as if it were moving left but changed direction to the right immediately. Bringing his sword down and up in a sweeping arc at the man who was not expecting him, cutting him from chin to forehead. The training which was ingrained took over in Stannis and he swept his sword across his body to cut downwards. Never slowing his horse for a moment. 

This wasn’t a battle. It was a slaughter. He grimaced as he withdrew a killing blow as his intended target had decided to flee. No honour in stabbing a man in the back. No honour in any of this. He needed to have their King surrendered. 

Screams and sounds of battle were drowned out by the hoofbeats of his other two columns. It was over before it began. 

He was wrong about magic. He was wrong about wargs. White walkers and wights. So why wouldn’t he be wrong about wildlings. The men his cavalry had killed were desperate men. Not conquerors. Stannis realised they had simply been on the wrong side of the Wall when it went up. Nothing more, nothing less. Now they were simply trying to escape something. 

Something which he and his men and all other Lords and Ladies and Knights and peasants of Westeros might one day need to face. These weren’t enemies. They were men given no other choice. He. Stannis Baratheon would offer that choice. 

He would kill no more today. He would seek peace.

…

Provided the proper respect was given to him. 

-

He rather liked Castle Black. It was exactly as it needed to be. Protective but not decorative. Not meagre but not excessive. Functioning as it ought to. 

Rather liked Ned Stark’s bastard too. Even rather liked this false King Mance Rayder. 

“He won’t bend the knee your grace,” Jon Snow explained for the second time. Stannis ran his back teeth against each other. “Unless you wish for me to speak to him.”

“If you convince him Jon Snow I will use my right as King to legitimise you,” Stannis told him clearly. There was a flash in the boy’s face of some hidden desire. 

“I’m a brother of the Night’s Watch…” Jon spoke slowly, biting his lip before speaking. “Winterfell belongs to the Boltons now.” Barely containing his seething. 

“No it doesn’t,” Stannis stood up from the Lord Commander’s desk which he had appropriated picking up the note he had received by raven. Walking out of the room to the balcony overlooking the training yard. Jon followed as all would of a King. 

“Here,” Stannis held out the note. “It came in the night.”

He waited watching these black brothers training with their men. They had wanted a rest. A foolish thing to do. Stannis had ordered them to keep training. 

“Dead?”

“Huh?” Stannis jerked away from watching the training. “Oh yes indeed.”

“Both Boltons are dead…” Jon Snow held the paper shaking. “Who did this?”

“No one knows. Some servant or squire who they flayed or tortured one time too many perhaps? It matters not and I shan’t waste my time speculating. Does this change your opinion now?”

“I… I need to think on this,” Jon replied.

That was good for Stannis. He said no originally and now he wasn’t saying no. Still a task at hand. 

“After you speak to this Mance Rayder,” Stannis ordered.

“Yes your grace, immediately your grace, may I have the key to the other cells?”

“For what purpose?”

“Two of his lieutenants are in them and they maybe more reasonable, if Mance does what I expect,” Jon explained.

“What do you expect?”

“Him to reasonably and politely refuse. Yet his lieutenants may speak sense if I can offer them freedom?”

Stannis just nodded his approval and went back to his office. 

***

“I like a drink as much as anyone but…” Oberyn gestured with his wrist. 

“You just killed the most feared man in Westeros, no need to be coy,” Tyrion responded, his head swimming from the bucket sized quantity of wine he had that since breakfast. 

“You mistake me Lannister, I spoke thusly out of politeness not cowardice, I am still a highborn like you, despite all my rough edges,” Oberyn smiled, not with his mouth, with his eyes. There was a deep intelligence there, rarely shown. “I did not save you, only for you to finish your sister’s murderous intent with wine instead of an axe or rope.”

“You didn’t save me to save me.”

“No I suppose not… Pass me the wine then,” Oberyn laughed out loud this time. “I saved you for revenge.”

“Did you get it?”

“Partially. Yet I am wiser than I was in my youth. Let me tell you a tale. When I first started training with the circular shield and spear I wanted to perform this exceptional move. Holding the spear on top of the rim of the shield and spinning the shield to make the spear vibrate and using that to dart the blade out like lightning,” Oberyn told him. They sat in a comfortable cabin of a small vessel as it sailed through the clear waters past Storm’s End. Lavish despite its humble size. “I tried to do this. I never could. I burnt my hands on the rope of the spear. I broke my toes fumbling and dropping the shield. Yet when I just practiced my basics first, then perfected them, and moved on and perfected the next set of skills I had all but forgotten the flashy trick I wished to learn. So when I finally remembered I wished to do this trick move later I attempted it and it was a piece of piss.”

“I see your point.”

“You do? Actually I have no reason for surprise, you are a clever man, cleverer than me. Maybe cleverer than my brother,” Oberyn saluted Tyrion with wine cup. 

“You said he may have a proposal for me?”

“I did but best wait… I’ve never fucked a dwarf before,” Oberyn said a long pause of staring into the red liquid swirling in his cup.

“No? Shame we’ve already left King’s Landing. Littlefinger would accommodate.”

“Never lay with a man my lord?” Oberyn smirked.

“No.”

“Never? It’s a great pleasure I assure you and Ellaria, when she awakes, would join in. Still I see it is not to your taste so I shan’t push and make this voyage uncomfortable.”

“Just drink?”

“Certainly. It makes a man more suggestible.”

Tyrion cocked an eyebrow at Oberyn who laughed.

“A jest. You were all but a dead man yesterday. Have some cheer Lannister.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Some cheer and maybe suck my cock as thanks…” … … “A joke, you fool,” Oberyn guffawed happily and lightly kicked the dwarf’s leg. 

Tyrion laughed with him that time. 

“I will give in and drink but you will want to hear what Doran has to say.”

“Baited breath.”

They clinked their wine cups.

***

“This is a fucking outrage!” 

“Keep your bloody voice down Cersei,” Tywin cursed for the first time outside of a battlefield in a long time. “Your female hysteria is not needed right now.”

“Hysteria?!”

“Yes, hysteria,” Tywin corrected flatly. “You realise we are surrounded by ‘friends,’ who will only stay friends with us if we remain strong. Screeching like a peasant widow is not how a Lannister should conduct themselves.”

“My son’s murderer is free!”

“Judged innocent by the gods.”

“I don’t believe there are any gods.”

“No neither do I,” Tywin sighed at his daughter’s shortsightedness. “However many do, most in fact, and if our House publicly spurned the gods we would be torn limb from limb by the plebs. You are being hysterical. I plan for the future of this House. Tyrion leaving may hurt you personally yet not the future of the House. He is of no consequence.”

“Tyrion is clever,” Cersei hissed, “I am loathe to admit it but he is. Cleverer than me, it hurts to say but he is. Possibly cleverer than you.” Tywin furrowed his brow. “Releasing him into the hands of an enemy is not wise.”

“This is hysteria. Believing that Tyrion could possibly change anything,” Tywin waved her off. “The only change he will bring is a new sort of sexual disease into Dorne.” 

“He won the Battle of Blackwater Bay,” Cersei was almost crying now. “He did. I would never ever say so if he wasn’t loose and wanting vengeance.”

“I won that battle with the help of the Tyrells.”

“No. If Tyrion didn’t use wildfire the Baratheon forlorn hope would have landed half an hour before. If Tyrion didn’t rally the troops after my son returned to me, Stannis would have taken the gates. With nearly a 100,000 men. Then he would have repelled you.”

“Absurd.”

“As I said you underestimate him.”

“I do not!” Tywin snapped slamming his hand down on the table. “You are too blinded by your hatred of him… I share some of these resentments. Yet we must focus on what now can be done. Not what may happen; not fantasy. We must deal with what we have. That is what I plan on doing.”

“I ca…”

“ENOUGH!”

Tywin stared daggers at his daughter. Until she lowered her head in submission.

“The North may have been lost again. Stannis has arrived at the Wall. One thousand mounted men and several thousand men-at-arms. The Bolton line has been ended by some servant with a grudge. The Tyrells are the second most powerful House and they have now rooted themselves into the centres of power. We have bigger concerns.”

“Yet you plan on marrying me to their son?!”

“I do,” Tywin replied matter-of-factly. 

“ I won’t.”

“Ah, there is the root of your anger.” 

“I won’t marry him.”

“You think you’ll be the first person dragged into a sept for a marriage ceremony?”

“I won’t.”

“Let me remind you of when you were ten and wanted to come to capitol.”

“I won’t… I won’t be married off again and I don’t want to hear another smug story about how you won again. If you try to force me I will destroy this House.”

Tywin chuckled. A rare thing for him. 

“How do you plan on doing that?”

“I’ll tell everyone the truth.”

“What truth is that?” Tywin’s smug smile grew.

“You don’t know do you? What am I saying?! Of course you don’t know. Someone so obsessed with family would never know anything about his actual family,” it was Cersei’s time to smirk. “Everything they say about Jaime and I is true.”

“No! I don’t believe it.”

“You do.” 

Cersei smiled as her father’s smile evaporated. Leaving him standing, rooted to the floor, with a small, petty victory. 

***

“I think he’ll be a better King than any of the other idiots who have sat the Iron Throne in the last 300 years,” Mance told Jon. 

“Yet you won’t bend the knee?”

“You speak well. Almost convinced me. Alas, no I won’t.”

-

Jon turned the key in the lock. Tormund’s hulking frame was bent over the table in his cell. Jon had brought a keg of wine for him. Thought it would raise his spirits.

“Here to gloat crow?”

“No.”

“Then fuck off,” Tormund growled.

“I have wine.”

“HA! Then stay for a bit,” Tormund replied. Jon liked the man. A lot. He was a good sort. Jon poured them both a measure, Tormund downed his quickly and Jon refilled him immediately. “Nice wine. Not the same as curdled goat’s milk. Still nice. What do you want Jon Snow.”

“Peace.”

“I would laugh in your face. However strangely I believe you.”

“You do?!”

“You came here to offer me peace and you’re surprised?”

“Yes.”

“I believe you. Not the rest of the crows. This cunt King? No I don’t believe him. If you were King or Lord or Ser or whatever you willy touching nancy boys Southerners say, I would believe you. You aren’t that though are you?”

“No I suppose not,” Jon measured his response.

“Then why should I waste my time listening? Just take my head and be done with it,” Tormund sighed finishing a second cup and holding it out for a bemused Jon Snow to refill it again.

“Stannis doesn’t take heads, he burns people alive,” Jon tried to hide his personal disgust relaying this information. He saw the fear in Tormund’s eyes. It was understandable. No man except a mad man wouldn’t fear fire. 

“Why are we speaking Jon Snow?”

“Because you’re a good man. Because we both know what is coming for us. Those who are breathing. We know.”

“Let’s say I agree to follow a Southern twat, then maybe, MAYBE, I’d follow you, but I can’t follow you, as you are no one here.”

“Stannis offered to make me Lord of Winterfell,” Jon told him.

“Winterfell?! It is legendary place to us Northerners. Very well Jon Snow, if you are Lord there, then I’ll help you. If you help me and my people.”

“Will you try to talk sense to Mance Rayder?”

“With certain promises from you? Then yes. The Lord of Winterfell making a promise to the Free Folk is one I would listen to…” Tormund emptied his glass and Jon once more refilled it. “Well even though you betrayed us Jon Snow you aren’t the betraying type. So if you gave your word as the Lord of Winterfell I think I would believe you. You alone.”

“I’m not Lord yet,” Jon replied.

“Why not.”

“I don’t want power for power’s sake. I was going to refuse the King. I’m a brother of the Night’s Watch. Yet with the Boltons gone. With you. With Mance. With… With Ygritte here, maybe my honour is worth sacrificing for a greater good,” Jon explained his predicament.

“Mance won’t bend the knee? Ha! You fucking stupid cunts thought he would?!” Tormund chuckled, spilling red wine in his red beard. 

“Do you want to die? You have daughters correct?”

“You’re prettier than them yes.”

“Do you want them to die?”

“I’d do anything to prevent that!” Tormund growled. His anger growing. “Was that a threat,” he snarled, before shaking out his mane of red hair. “No. No I understand you wouldn’t threatened them Jon Snow. I see what you’re fucking saying. I’d do anything to save them.”

“Except touch your knee to the dirt for a second?”

“I…” Tormund trailed off. His face troubled by deep thought. “You’re a good lad Snow,” Tormund spoke finally after a very long pause. “I will think on what you said… Truly I will... If you leave the wine.”

Jon laughed and tossed the key to Giantsbane’s shackles down. “I’ll leave you more than that.”

“Really?”

“Chains are for enemies. I don’t consider you an enemy. I consider you a friend.”

-

“Fuck you crow! Fuck you! Fuck you!” Ygritte strained against her shackles kicking wildly, thrashing like a wild animal. She looked like the most prejudiced image of a wildling that a Southerner could imagine. 

“Ygritte,” Jon sighed. His voice heavy with sorrow. 

“Fuck you!”

“I’m here to release you.”

“The fuck you are!”

“Nevermind,” Jon stood with a heavy heart and went to the cell door. 

“No wait.”

He paused. 

“Yes?”

“Why would you release me?” Ygritte’s voice was still angry but no longer furious. A distinct difference. 

“Because,” he shrugged. Getting a bit shy. 

“Aw the maid comes through. Speak true Jon Snow.”

“Because Stannis has offered to make me Lord of Winterfell. Tormund has said he will speak to Mance about bending the knee and saving all those children and all the women… Not the women like you… The one’s who cannot fight,” Jon snapped at her. “So all us who are living stay living.”

“Fight for the crows?! Pfft.”

“I wouldn’t be a crow. I would finally be a Stark. We can all face the Long Night TOGETHER!” Jon’s frustration growing.

“Why would give up your vows? You wouldn’t give them up for Mance. You wouldn’t for Tormund. You wouldn’t for me. Even after that cave.”

“I would for you.”

“Huh?”

“I did for you!”

“Some fuck? To pass the time? Don’t make laugh.”

“I would leave the Night’s Watch, I would go to Winterfell, I would reclaim my father’s seat and I would…” Jon trailed off. The lump in his throat growing too large to speak.

“Go on,” Ygritte whispered softly. 

“I would make you the Lady of Winterfell.”

The silence hung very heavy for quite a while. Quite a while indeed. When she did not reply Jon went to the door and knocked for the guard to open it. He paused at the opened door.

“It’s bigger than that Windmill?” Ygritte asked in a softer voice. “You said towers three times as high?”

He walked through the door before pausing yet again. Then leaning back.

“And I promise I wouldn’t rip any of your pretty lady’s dresses.”

She laughed. He laughed. They shared a look. 

“You know nothing Jon Snow!”

“Sorry?” He paused.

“If you are going to be some fancy lord, I won’t let you make me your lady. I will choose to be your lady. You don’t get a say.”

He wanted to kiss her. Rush back and grab her and kiss her. Instead he blushed as she winked before throwing her the key to her shackles. 

Talking to Tormund and Ygritte had cheered him up immensely. Perhaps solidifying doubt. There was a hope for good to triumph.


	3. TWO: Snow Storms and Sand Blizzards

Stannis knew the men of Castle Black needed a leader. He would recommend Jon Snow if he didn’t need the lad’s father’s legacy to garner support in the North. 

The bickering was irritating more by the day. Factions broke off. The main thing they argued about was the Wildlings. Whether it was wise to seek peace or to kill them all. To Stannis it were obvious. Slaughtering beat dogs has no honour. If a man surrendered honourably then his life was returned to him. 

Jon Snow had requested to allow some hulking bearded prisoner to speak to this Mance Rayder. 

So be it.

“A moment your grace?”

“Come in Ser Davos,” Stannis waved him in. 

“News from the South,” Davos held up a scroll. 

“What does it say,” Stannis pushed. The man was learning to read and coddling him was no way to make someone better at something. 

“Oberyn Martell has killed the Mountain and left the Capitol with Tyrion Lannister in tow.”

“Unless Dorne swears loyalty to me it’s of no interest.”

“Begging your pardon your grace but a distracted, weakened Tywin is surely good for us.”

“We are a thousand miles away from Tywin Lannister. Winterfell first.”

There was a knock on door again and Jon Snow entered.

“Your grace?”

“What is it?”

“Tormund Giantsbane has been speaking to Mance all morning and he is willing to speak to you,” Jon Snow told the King. 

“Very well,” Stannis stood up and walked briskly to the door and down to the cells. 

These Wildlings were no enemy to him. Rough men true. Without manners. However just men. Like any other. Probably more civilised than some of the Hill Clans of the Vale. More loyal than most of those so called nobles in the Capitol. In fact they were definitely more civilised than one man he spotted as he crossed the training yard.

“You’re Janos Slynt,” Stannis marched up to the balding, fat ingrate. 

“I am… Your grace,” he added with some rudeness.

“You were the commander of the city watch. Why are you are?”

“The Imp!” He spat. “The little monster sent me away and then killed the King.”

“Tyrion Lannister? He won his Trial by Combat,” Stannis told the man. “So by law he did not kill the false King. He was the reason I lost the Battle of Blackwater Bay. Not a stupid man by any metric. If he thought you deserved punishment I have no reason to doubt it.” Surveying the portly coward who couldn’t even meet his eye. He disgusted Stannis. 

“Yes. Your grace.”

“Get out of my sight,” Stannis commanded as he stalked off to the cells. 

-

“We meet again,” Mance Rayder spoke in a husky, dry voice. “Somehow under worse circumstances.”

“Worse for you.”

“Aye, worse for me.”

“Jon Snow has spoken to me, says you wish to talk,” the King forced them to the speak of what was relevant. Nothing more. 

“Aye, he’s a good lad. Truly his father’s son.”

“What did you want to say.”

“My people have bled enough. You have most in chains. The rest are hiding.”

“Where?”

“I need certain guarantees before I divulge that information.”

“Bend the knee and I will give them,” Stannis repeated. He wasn’t going to waste too much time with this. He wanted this man to bend his knee and that was that. No more negotiation before that was done. “I will even forgive you for your desertion from the Night’s Watch.” 

“Aye thought you’d say that. Not that I need to be a greenseer to predict that,” Mance sighed deeply, his shoulders rising and falling with a dramatic weight. “As I’ve said my people have bled enough. Tormund Giantsbane had a lot harsh words for me. Harsh and somewhat cruel but true.”

***

“The Boltons are dead.”

“What?!”

“They are dead, killed by Theon Greyjoy,” Petyr elaborated to Sansa. Sweet Robin was present but uninterested. He was rolling a ball against the wall, like a child half his age might.

“Theon?!”

“Yes, very few people know the truth. I suspect it may just be me and Lord Varys. It does mean the North is open and leaderless.”

“What can I do about that?”

“You have a famous name and Stannis Baratheon who is at Castle Black needs a Stark to galvanise the North,” Petyr explained. 

“You want me to marry Stannis?!”

“No! Of course not. He is married. Merely this is very interesting state of affairs. Unexpected. No one thought this would be the case,” Petyr continued to explain. Trying not to sound patronising but managing it nonetheless. “With your permission I would write a letter to Stannis and let him know that you are safe and sound here in the Eyrie.”

“We should fight!” Robin stood up throwing his ball away carelessly. “You’re my cousin! We should help you!” 

“A keen instinct my Lord,” Littlefinger bowed his head in pretend humility. Acting as if the intellectually stunted young lord was actually intellectually superior. 

“The Lannisters killed my father didn’t they?”

“They did.”

“My father wanted a Baratheon on the throne right? He served the fat King for years and years and years,” Robin went on. “Fat Robert was nice to me, he smelled of wine but he was nice.” 

“He did and he was my lord.”

“We should help then,” he nodded happily. Completely unaware of the weight of his words. As a servant came over to hand him back the ball he had been throwing around the young Lord of the Vale made them stop. “Go find the maester. Call my banners.”

“Yes my lord.”

“Oh and get me some boiled eggs with bread soldiers to dip in them!” He said happily as if that were the more important of the two commands he just issued.

Petyr turned back to Sansa. 

“The North will be back in your family's’ hands soon,” he assured her. She didn’t allow herself to trust him. Too much heartbreak in her life had taught her to be wary of alluring promises. “Some cutthroat named Locke rules in Winterfell now.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Few have, his deeds though… He took the hand from Kingslayer,” Baelish went on. “Though a jumped up serjeant stands very little chance against the joined power of the Vale and Stannis Baratheon.”

“Very little,” Sansa mimicked. That wasn't a guarantee and she had learned the hardest way possible that believing in dreams oft turned the world into a nightmare.  
.  
***

“I don’t love Tywin Lannister, I love my brother,” Cersei whispered into Jaime’s ear. Kissing his ear and sliding down to her knees. He knew he was being used. She always used sex as a weapon to get him on side. Cursing himself, as it always bloody worked. He growled internally as he picked up her up from the floor and threw her onto the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard’s table. Pushing the Book of Brothers across the stone.

Tearing at her skirts.

It had been a long time since they had passionate, loving sex. It was always violent and raw. They fought, they argued then they fucked like they were still arguing. 

Jaime threw her small clothes onto the floor with his good hand as she pulled off his sword belt and yanked his breeches down. Pushing up his chainmail she took him in hand. He was already hard.

Holding the base of his cock she guided him inside of her. She was tight, no foreplay, almost painful as he pushed inside her. They’d been fucking for decades so quickly found their rhythm. Fast and deep thrusts inside his sister, as her nails dug deep into his neck. 

His breaths became grunts and her moans became louder, she bite into his neck to hide her noise from anyone passing this not very private place. 

They came close to each other. Him first, pushing on despite his instinct to just stop and perhaps have a nap. Then Cersei, her nails leaving angry, red, white and red half-moon welts in Jaime’s neck. 

-

“You!” Tywin marched up to his son. Jaime felt a tremble of fear. Odd. He hadn’t felt that in a long time. 

“Father.”

“Why are you still wearing that Gold Cloak?”

“I’m Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Jaime replied carefully.

“You promised me that you would be done with this foolishness, and would return to the Rock. To have children named Lannister!” Tywin snapped. He was angry. Jaime had seen his father angry before but not like this. He was unable to contain it. 

“You promised to free Tyrion but he freed himself.”

“Oberyn Martell freed your brother! You will take off that cloak now! Then you will go to Casterly Rock and have children,” Tywin ordered again.

“I have a child,” Jaime squared his shoulders and clenched his jaw. “I will protect him here.”

“You disgust me!”

Tywin stormed off. Jaime knew he should hold his tongue. He couldn’t though. Not this time.

“Both of us are taboo breakers father.”

“How dare you compare your sickness to me.”

“I broke customs out of love, you massacred a man at his wedding out of hate. To make up for your own failures father, I’d rather fuck my sister than fuck up every level of decency which has held Westeros together for milinena.”

***

“You informed on her?”

“Let me speak to the Queen,” Jorah garbled quickly. 

“You’ll never be alone with her again,” Ser Barristan replied harshly. 

“I…”

The old knight gave Jorah a disgusted look and went to move off, however the now twice disgraced knight grabbed his arm.

“If you don’t let go of me Ser and let me pass we will be crossing swords.”

“Here I stand.”

Jorah pulled out his sword. Barristan paused, his back to his fellow knight. Before nodding, putting away the official pardon he was holding and drawing his own sword. 

They were by the sea in the most peaceful part of Meereen. No one was around. No one would see. Jorah knew this man. Knew his reputation. Yet his life would be ruined and gone if Barristan went to Daenerys with news of his treason. So death would be certain one way or the other. He had to risk it all.

They circled for a moment. 

Jorah struck first, a high strike which the old knight easily parried. The man wasn’t as strong or fast as Jorah. Yet his skill was unparalleled. The way he wielded a sword was an art. 

Neither were in armor. One strike to the body would cut and at their age that could be the end. 

His footwork and training took over as he swung low cutting up high at the legendary knight, his blow was blocked but he was already moving back and trying to stab Selmy in the gut. He almost felt like a fool the way the old man was able to stop him so easily. 

He barely was able to move his sword up to block the incoming strikes when the offensive slipped from his control into that of the elder knight’s. Reeling from a high parry he had to throw almost instantly after a low one, Jorah reset his footing, taking a couple paces back.

Ser Barristan calmly moved like liquid fitting, exactly, the container into which it was poured. As if it were nature. Jorah could see his chest moving frequently. The elder knight would not be able to maintain this for long. Nor was he as strong as Mormont; that would have to be his strength. 

They circled briefly. 

Before re-engaging.

Their steel clashed and scrapped, as Jorah punched out with an open palm to shove Selmy back. He didn’t trip, or stumble, but was shoved back. Jorah took his sword in both hands and brought it over his head and down in a furious, uncoordinated, savage strike. Easy to block. Easy to see coming. However not easy for an older man to block without taking a severe toll on his stamina. 

Hard blow after hard blow were blocked with ease. Ease of technique but not ease of body. 

Ser Barristan was able to move the blows away but each one made him breath harder. Having survived his most brutal assault the elder moved back on the attack. His skill was beyond reproach and Jorah realised he wouldn’t be able to beat this man. 

A bad plan formed in his head. It was stupid but it was all he could think of mid-combat.

Jorah blocked all high shots; those aimed his torso or head. Letting Ser Barristan’s blade come close to striking his leg. 

Pretending to fall back in a feint; Jorah allowed his foe’s sword to take him in the thigh. Straightening his leg he trapped Selmy’s sword in the meat of his upper leg. 

The former Kingsguard was bewildered as he lost his weapon in the leg of his enemy, his bewilderment last naught but a second as Jorah; biting his own tongue to deal with pain stepped back on the injured leg taking the sword with him. 

With a vicious backhanded strike Jorah broke every bone in Ser Barristan’s jaw. The legend fell dead instantly. As black spots started overtaking Jorah’s vision. More and more black spots took over from the light until he too collapsed with agony. 

In the last few moments of consciousness Mormont pulled the Royal Pardon out of his fallen adversaries’ cloak and tossed it towards the ocean before the blackness totally overtook him. 

***

“I will not give up the lands I have seized nor the strongholds I have conquered!”

“This is beyond foolish!”

“Careful girl!” Balon snapped. 

Yara knew she was safe. As rough and brusque as her father was she was his only true ally. He would snap and growl but he would not send her away. 

“Moat Cailin is gone. I barely escaped Barrowtown. Lady Dustin has eaten her own fingers and gone mad, her castle gone to the Boltons!” Yara told her father.

“Now the Boltons are gone, so we take them back,” Balon seethed.

“Stannis is at Castle Black. Do you not remember father? Remember what happens when the Ironborn dare meet Stannis in the field? Yet alone the sea? He will crush us. Or if we leave the North he will ignore us. Otherwise our raiders will have to stand up to a heavy cavalry charge.”

“Leave us to our ‘shit stained,’ rocks?!” 

“He will.”

“That’s your counsel girl? Hide back here?! Pathetic.”

“It isn’t. My counsel is we take a castle which is worth taking and possible to hold,” Yara told him. Hoping to calm him from his irresponsible rage by offering up her lucrative plan. She waited a few beats but no reply came. “We attack the Twins of House Frey.”

“For what purpose?” Balon asked, the anger dropping from his voice. He was willing to listen. 

“If Moat Cailin needed reinforcing a raven would take a day, relief a fortnight, too long. Whereas the Twins can be reached in a couple days if the wind is right. They can’t be taken by either the North or the South,” Yara continued. “And they are rich. Rich lands, which tie into the sea. It is all we need. The North loves the Starks and will defend their lands. No one loves the Freys… Not even other Freys.”

“House Frey made alliance with House Lannister. Do you want the Lion knocking at our doors again?!” Balon was being obtuse but no longer in direct confrontation with her. Yara sensed he could be won around. 

“The Lion will be soon be blinded by the Sun.”

“Sorry?”

“News from the capitol. Haven’t you heard?” Yara handed the raven’s scroll over to her father. “The Freys are a weak House. With more wealth right now they’ll ever have again. If this isn’t a reaver’s dream then what the fuck is?”

Balon didn’t reply. He just re-read the scroll over and over, his nodding as he did.

 

-

Gripping her throwing axe Yara pushed her shoulder so hard into the rowing boat it was throbbing. 

Just under a hundred Ironborn raiders in a series of rowboats which were coated in black leather with black sails to make themselves as dark as possible sailed silently. 

The Green Fork was pleasant to sail. 

Dragging the rowboats from the shore over the countryside to the Trident and the Green Fork? Not so pleasant. 

There was music coming the Southern Castle of the Twin stronghold. Another party. A lot of money to celebrate when one wins a war without bloody fighting it, Yara reflected. 

Their sailboats stopped under the bridge. No other person could have sneaked up on a guarded fortress like this. Apart from the handful of reavers Yara picked. There they weighed anchor under the bridge, hidden by the stone. 

From there they slowly lowered themselves from their vessels. Making little to no noise. No more than the waterlife itself. They split. One going one way, one the other. There was a plan and the longships which brought them to Westeros in the first place had far more than men then were currently hiding under the bridges nearby. 

Yara was going South side. 

She and her men went about their business as did the other collective. 

They swam to the supporting pillars of the bridge and then in ones dipped under the river and moved around the pillar back to the cover of the bridge. Repeating this until Yara was directly under the looming height of the Castle. 

Unlike any other Castle the Twins inner gates were less protective. The presumption was the outside gates of each respective castle would hold an enemy out. The Freys hadn’t prepared for an attack from the inside. Especially now. Their recent, disgraceful, success had made them even more arrogant and lazy. 

Yara pulled herself up the cracks and footholds of the bridge and held for a moment waiting for her men. Her shoulder aching. 

A tap on her shoulder. That was the signal.

She leaped over the top of the bridge. Two men were chatting, holding halberds, guarding the portcullis, they didn’t notice her, didn’t notice the second man, nor the third and by the time they noticed the fourth both of their throats were opened. 

The Reavers pulled themselves up. Having faith their fellow Ironborn were doing their job the other side.

“Open the front gates, kill everyone in your way,” Yara commanded as quietly as she could pulling a dirk to accompany her axe. 

***

“Prance Dowrant,” Tyrion slurred, barely able to see properly, yet alone speak. “A meet you to pleasure,” he held down a blech and possibly some liquid. 

“This is the impressive Lannister eh?” The prince spoke with deep humour to his younger brother. The man was in a chair with wheels. His legs covered by sheets which were too much for the heat. 

“He is,” Oberyn replied, putting a reassuring hand on Tyrion’s back, pushing him towards a recliner. Taking one for himself. 

“Fighting the Mountain-Who-Rides was foolish.”

“If I lost, dear brother, if I lost.”

“One misstep!” 

“He almost caught my ankle! That would have taken me low,” Oberyn admitted happily. “Look brother I know I know you have many reservations but what done is done. We could waste a year finding new words to say to the same thing.” 

Tyrion was hearing the words as if he were barely submerged in water. A film of distortion over both his ears and eyes. He had been sick in the morning and kept drinking, was sick a bit later, then was sick again. As long as he held down some of the alcohol that was all he could hope for now. 

“My apologies Lord Tyrion,” Doran addressed him directly after a short spate of bickering. “There are times when we are seven again and acting like young brothers do.”

“No. Need. To. Apologise. My. Lord.” Tyrion spoke very deliberately, hiding his inability to string a non slurred sentence together. “Prince!” He corrected himself by shouting. 

“The ravens my brother has sent since being in the Capitol have been very interesting. A Lannister he does not hate. Likes even! Him! Oberyn! You must be a rare man for my brother to put aside his prejudices…”

“Not prejudices, I’m judging events that have happened not one’s which will,” Oberyn interrupted angrily. 

“Fair enough, no need to raise your voice brother, that’s your problem you know! You…”

“My princes! My princes!” Tyrion held up a hand to stop them bickering, before he could continue talking that hand had to be used to cover his mouth. The belch was almost vomit. Not quite though. “I haven’t travelled all the way to Dorne to hear brothers argue. If I wanted family drama I could have stayed at home… Well if my decapitated head could still listen.”

“Fair enough,” Prince Doran nodded as Oberyn tutted with annoyance. “I am a little annoyed if I am honest with you my lord. My brother shouldn’t have said I had an offer for you. I wished to discuss things first. So allow me to ask you, what do you want now?”

Tyrion just held up the goblet filled with deep red swirling liquid. 

“Wine?”

“Anything alcoholic will do,” Tyrion explained. “Wine just happens to be my favourite.”

“Not revenge against those who have wronged you?” 

“Those who have wronged me seem to be the same as those who wronged your brother,” Tyrion nodded at the Red Viper. “I feel he would be more apt at exacting these vengances than me.”

“Perhaps on the battlefield. However war is more than battlefields… As Robb Stark found out,” Doran spoke softly. 

“Fuckin’ disgraceful!” Oberyn spat.

Tyrion shared his champion’s disgust. The Red Wedding wasn’t just a step too far. The murder of Elia Martell was. The Red Wedding was so far from that step. It ruined guest rites forever. Thousands of years of decency destroyed for a cheap victory. 

“Oberyn is sailing East and I would like you to sail with him,” Doran finally got to his point.

“Please tell me my prince, what would I find in the East?” Tyrion was biting back sarcasm with every word. 

“Revenge.”

“Anything more specific,” Tyrion couldn’t hold in his sarcasm now.

“Fire,” Doran said solemnly.

“And Blood,” Oberyn added.


End file.
